


the duke of wellington's man

by halsinator



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Moderately Trashy, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4505964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halsinator/pseuds/halsinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Duke of Wellington makes a... sandwich.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the duke of wellington's man

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the kinkmeme, where I guess it acquired a reputation.

People had taken to calling Strange "the Duke's magician," or sometimes "the Duke of Wellington's man," sometimes in a tone that was impressed, respectful; sometimes in a tone that implied something slightly different. As though, Grant thought, Strange were Wellington's possession, as though he were a particularly prized bit of weaponry— something the Duke might cosset and then use to kill, something he doted upon and then turned demanding towards; something he saw as his tool— or toy, to do with as he pleased.

Grant felt conflicted about the state of affairs. In the Peninsula, he had often worried about Strange; Wellington, he had thought, did not pay Strange enough attention, did not see what war was doing to Strange. Grant had felt it incumbent upon himself to step in and offer comfort. Nothing drastic, only a reassuring chat, a friendly arm around the shoulder, sometimes a soothing pet to the hair. The thing was that Strange was such an awfully physical creature. He seemed to live at the ends of his nerves. He would shake himself to pieces if someone did not hold him together. He felt the violence extremely, and he needed someone to make him feel something other than violence, or he would retreat to dark and desperate places in his own head. Grant had thought— well, he had thought that someone must provide Strange with what he needed. And if he found himself unexpectedly tender towards Strange after sleeping chastely together, curled up in the same bedroll in the cold Spanish mountain country— if he had smiled, in those tender moments, down at Strange, who tended in sleep to nose towards the nearest warm object, and wrap himself around it, and resist all efforts at its removal petulantly— well, he had thought philosophically, such feelings happened. They had not significantly impeded his functioning.

Now, though— now Strange had changed. Perhaps it was his break with Norrell. He seemed wilder, somehow. He needed more— and had no source of it, perhaps, whatever it was that he needed so badly. And Grant was so often away from him now. When they were reunited, he saw the change.

Wellington seemed also to have seen. Grant perceived his eyes following Strange from time to time. What did the Duke do with an erratic weapon? Ascertain the nature of its malfunctioning; arrange for it to be recalibrated. Grant registered his attention with a kind of relief. Surely, he thought, the Duke would take care of it.

Wellington was aware that he and Strange had remained particular friends, so Grant was not altogether surprised to be summoned eventually. He assumed the Duke would want to know what had transpired in London; did Grant think it was affecting Strange so very badly? Was Strange to be relied upon? He imagined the Duke saying, in his customary, curt and practical way, _Answers, Grant! I do not wish for speculation! Supply me with options, if you please!_

But when he came to Wellington's tent at the close of the march, he found that he had miscalculated the situation entirely. For Strange was there in the tent already, seated in a chair and looking very tired. De Lancey was there as well, his face looking somewhat peculiar; he glanced at Grant as Grant entered the tent.

"Ah, Grant," Wellington said. "There you are. Good fellow. I have just been explaining to Merlin that it will not do for him to so exhaust himself in the business of doing magic that he cannot be relied upon to retain consciousness! I had a great need of him this morning to move a river out of the path of some Nassauers, and after some three hours' search, where do you think we found him? Asleep in a barn, by God, exactly where we had left him two days before, when he had been engaged in summoning up some visions of the French."

Grant said, "Perhaps you ought first to have looked for him where you left him."

Wellington did not seem to appreciate the comment. "He had eaten nothing; he had fallen asleep in that damned basin he carries about. I ask you, sir, what good does that do me? No good; a neglectful magician does no good at all."

Strange interjected in a low voice, "If your grace will permit me—"

"I do not permit you!" Wellington said. "I cannot provide you with a nursemaid, Mr Strange; it is not a category of person I command. However, I can and will provide you with a reminder that you are not a fairy spirit; you do not subsist on sunlight and dewdrops and other such nonsense; you are a man, and a man in whom I have invested a great deal."

Strange had dropped his eyes.

De Lancey said very neutrally, "His Grace the Duke feels that perhaps we could... remind Mr Strange of the particular demands of the body, to which he has been so remiss in giving attention."

Grant blinked. "Do you mean...?" It took him a moment to really comprehend the intimation. He was feeling quite angry at Strange, for he could believe that Strange had behaved exactly as Wellington described. At the moment, Strange seemed very loosely attached to himself, and indeed to everything. But he was also feeling quite angry at Wellington, for not coming to him. Had he known, he certainly would have taken care of Strange.

De Lancey said, "If you think I mean..." He and Grant were very adept at communicating without speaking. They had, after all, long been friends.

The idea that was being suggested sent a spike of lust through Grant's body. It could not even be called lust, really; it was more immediately physical than that, like the punching recoil of an artillery shot. His breath caught, and he felt his cock rise slightly in his breeches. For a split-second, all he could consider was want. He looked at Strange, who was staring fixedly at the ground. It was hard not to imagine kissing him. But Grant said, "Merlin, do you...?"

Wellington said sharply, "I shall decide what is best for my magician!"

"Yes," Grant said, "but—"

Strange said unreadably, "It is all right, Grant. I am content. Do not trouble yourself."

Grant still felt a good deal troubled, but he could not think how to voice this at that moment. He looked around the tent, which did not seem altogether very luxurious. He looked at Wellington, who was considering a map on his desk. "... Here, sir?" he asked.

Wellington looked up. "It is as good a place as any, is it not? Have you a better suggestion, Major Grant?"

 _Yes,_ Grant thought. _I shall take him back to Brussels; I shall find an empty bedroom, something a count once slept in, with a ceiling all covered in angels and gold paint, and a featherbed big enough for four people, and I shall lay him down on that featherbed, and I shall kiss his forehead, and take his hand and say to him, "Whatever have you been thinking, Merlin?" And then I shall—_ The thought was so strange and extraordinary that it quite unmoored him; he could not think what to say. "No, sir," he said finally.

"Excellent," the Duke said. He had already returned to his map. "Continue, then, Grant. There is a camp bed in the corner, if you should need such a thing."

Grant looked back at Strange. He took a hesitant step closer to the chair. He looked over Strange's head at De Lancey, who seemed similarly indecisive. De Lancey shrugged as though to say, "What would you have me do?" He liked Strange as well, and was, Grant suspected, somewhat inexperienced in these matters. It was clear that he would be no natural leader here. Strange, for his part, seemed barely present.

It was that which sparked Grant to action, because he could not bear it. Wellington was right, he thought; Strange had been quite driven out of his body by the misery of warfare, by his despair about it. He needed to be brought back. Grant had done it before, even if by other means. So Grant went to him and knelt and said, "If you will permit me?" He began undoing the buttons of Strange's waistcoat, brisk and efficient-like.

After a moment, Strange touched his face. His hand was hesitant and a little dirty. Grant pressed a kiss into the center of his palm. He hoped it was a reassurance. He could feel Strange's hand trembling— but then, it trembled most of the time now. It was not a particular symptom.

"Have you done this before?" he asked Strange.

Silently, Strange shook his head.

"You will enjoy it," Grant said. He did not add, I promise.

Unexpectedly, Strange smiled. "I trust you," he said.

It was such an artless declaration that Grant was faintly astonished. His fingers stilled, and then resumed their business, pushing coat and waistcoat off of Strange's shoulders. In a moment, he had worked off Strange's boots, as well. He felt less a lover than a servant, but there was something intimate in the gesture. He stood, and regarded Strange in breeches and shirt. He had never seen the man so very unclothed, and for the first time since De Lancey had spoken the notion, the imagining of what he was about to do unfurled in him. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

Strange looked at him curiously, but did not speak. Instead, he reached out his hands and caught at Grant's uniform jacket. "I am afraid I do not know how it works," he said self-consciously. "There are so many buttons. I cannot return the favor."

"Allow me to demonstrate," Grant said. "—De Lancey."

De Lancey had been watching with a fair measure of interest, and the colour was very high in his cheeks. He came when called, fumbling eagerly at his own jacket, practically ripping it away, before setting to work at Grant's, and then the waistcoat... his excitement was showing; his cock was pushing at his trousers. Grant divested him of his waistcoat and palmed him, watching his eyelashes flutter as he thrust his hips forward shamelessly. Then— interesting— his eyes slid past Grant, to where Wellington sat scribbling a note on a dispatch, and Grant thought: _It is Wellington's orders that make you hard, the thought of Wellington watching, and nothing about me or Strange._ He felt faintly amused and faintly scornful at the notion— but he could work with it.

And Strange was watching them with a flicker of interest. Grant caught his eye and then held De Lancey more purposefully, shaping his hand against his cock through the fabric, applying pressure, so that De Lancey jerked a little against him. The noise of his breathing was loud in the silence, and the noise of the single harsh swallowed sound of pleasure he made.

Grant released him and said, "Get your trousers off."

De Lancey, panting, scrambled to obey.

Grant approached Strange slowly. "And you," he said.

Strange was staring at him avidly, wide-eyed, like prey. Grant ran a hand along his face; trailed a thumb over his lips. God, he had longed to do just this; to touch the bow of those lips, to— he had not even let himself think of the wet heat beyond them— the desire, so long subdued, seemed to catapult against his ribcage, making him feel savage and dizzy. He paused. Strange parted his lips, and then he was sucking lightly at the flesh of Grant's thumb, running his tongue along the ridges of it. His gaze flicked to Grant very deliberately, then down. Grant had to close his eyes. His blood was rushing queasily.

Strange released his thumb with a distinct wet sound. He looked up at Grant. "Is that what you wanted," he said. Then he bent his head to Grant's hand and licked a broad stripe along the palm. He took the index finger into his mouth, then each finger in turn, laving them with his tongue. Grant had never imagined what his tongue would feel like, how wet it might leave his fingers, how Strange would look with his soft cheeks hollowed, with his eyelashes lowered. He found himself transfixed. He could not move. He was aware that he was fully erect.

Close by them, De Lancey made a breathy, hungry noise, which drew Grant's attention and broke the spell. De Lancey was working his own cock, watching them; he wore only his shirt. He looked at Grant. He said, "I want..." It was half a question.

Strange let Grant's hand drop and turned his gaze to De Lancey. De Lancey stepped forward.

Grant had not answered the question, because he felt a furious and quite unjustified surge of jealousy. No; possessiveness. Strange was his; he did not care if De Lancey wanted— but here De Lancey was guiding Strange's head forward, tangling fingers in his curls, and Strange was taking his cock in obediently. Strange made the most obscene wet mouthing sounds as De Lancey shut his eyes and clenched his hand in Strange's hair and said, "Oh, oh, yes."

Grant turned his back on them and got his own boots and breeches and shirt off, his motions short and choppy and dense with rage. He realized after a moment that Wellington was watching— not the more obvious spectacle of Strange sucking De Lancey's cock, but the far too naked emotion on Grant's own face. He straightened and returned the regard coolly.

Wellington said nothing.

De Lancey was thrusting now— not too rough; he was a gentleman, De Lancey. He was slow and deliberate, his face tense with pleasure. He seemed entranced by his cock disappearing into Strange's mouth. He stared at it. He kept whispering, "Good, yes."

"We have orders," Grant reminded him loudly.

De Lancey threw him a frustrated look. "I— hah, I know— just—"

"Perhaps you could escort Mr Strange to the bed."

He did not outrank De Lancey, and De Lancey would have been well within his rights to point this out. Instead he looked from Grant to Strange, and a look of resentment seemed to flash in his eyes. But he withdrew his cock slowly from Strange's mouth, stroking those tangles of hair, and gestured for Strange to follow him to the camp bed.

It was a spare, rickety thing— the Duke's own bed being located in a private alcove— and it creaked when De Lancey pushed Strange down on it. Strange looked from De Lancey to Grant, licking his lips. He was still in his breeches, though they were rumpled. De Lancey knelt to work at the buttons of them.

Grant touched Strange's hair where De Lancey had touched it. He said, his throat tight, "I would kiss you, but you'd taste like him."

Strange met his gaze, clearly stung and little challenging.

De Lancey said derisively, "Oh, really, Grant; you must learn to share." He was tugging Strange's breeches off, leaving his hard cock bare. De Lancey said, "At least he's enjoying it." He reached out and wrapped a fist around Strange's cock, and Strange closed his eyes. His breath hissed.

"We'll need oil," Grant said. "If you want him to keep enjoying it. I'm sure Lord Wellington has some."

De Lancey shot a defensive glance at him. But he released Strange's cock and stood reluctantly.

Grant sat at the edge of the bed. "Are you enjoying it?" he asked Strange without really looking at him.

"You wanted me to," Strange said. He pressed his mouth to Grant's shoulder. "Do you also want me to... ?" He gestured with one hand towards Grant's cock as his tongue traced a very small hot wet spiral against an area of freckled skin.

"No," Grant said hotly. Yes, he thought. That tongue around his fingers, insistently curious. God. Strange's mouth, drawing him in. His cock jumped. God. Yes.

De Lancey returned. He was carrying a bottle of oil. Grant did not ask why it existed. De Lancey said, "On your knees, then," just as though he were giving an casual order.

Strange slowly complied, but he he had begun to look uncertain. He glanced at Grant, and there was a message there: _You? Please, you?_ Already, De Lancey was running hands over his hips, his legs; he pressed himself close and thrust against the flesh of Strange's buttocks.

"You're having both of us," Grant said shortly. "And he won't hurt you."

After a moment, this made him feel thoroughly ugly, and he touched Strange's face by way of apology. Strange reached up and grasped his hand. He held it very tightly. His fingers were still shaking. He was still holding Grant's hand as De Lancey spread his legs slightly and reached between them, and Strange let out a shocked, choked kind of gasp.

Resentful, De Lancey might be, but not unkind, and not uncareful, and certainly not with Wellington's magician. He went slow, working Strange patiently with one finger. Grant watched Strange's face, the strange expressions of pleasure and discomfort that seemed to collide on it; the moments when Strange simply looked at him with those wide eyes, and Grant did not know how to speak to him. When Strange squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head, Grant could tell that De Lancey had introduced a second finger. He felt— a terrible tension had built inside his breastbone. He lifted his hand helplessly and dropped it. He looked away— and saw Wellington watching from his desk in the corner.

Grant straightened his posture, turned his face neutral. He did not want to expose such sentiment. He withdrew his hand from Strange's, though Strange made a protesting noise, and went to watch as De Lancey slicked oil over his cock and began, very slowly, to press in. Strange was tight; it was not an easy push; but again, De Lancey was patient, though his face suggested a kind of unbearable agony of pleasure. Grant watched as inch after inch of him disappeared into Strange, until he was pressed flush against Strange completely, his hips giving little, convulsive jerks.

De Lancey seemed too overcome even to form words. He gripped at Strange's hips hard, struggling to stay still, swallowing mouthfuls of air. Eventually he said, "Oh, I can't, I can't—" and he pulled out a few inches and slammed back in very fast.

Strange gave a punched-out gasp.

De Lancey said, "Oh God, you're so— God," and he repeated the motion, sliding out and then driving back in. Grant could not seem to look away from the sight— Strange's body giving way before the push of De Lancey's cock. De Lancey's hands seized at Strange's hips. Strange was making a number of very small choked noises; he had lowered his head to his hands, and appeared to have put his fist in his mouth in an effort to hold the noises in.

Without really meaning to, Grant reached out as De Lancey was mid-thrust and pressed the flat of his thumb to the rim of that hole. He could feel the slick movement of De Lancey's cock under it, out and then in; the quiver of Strange's body, hot and straining. He stroked at those two wet softnesses— then once more, heavily, almost pushing, and De Lancey shouted incoherently, and Strange made a crying sort of sound. De Lancey thrust very, very fast for a moment, and then seemed to regain control; panting, he hissed, "Go away; you're going to make me finish."

"I thought that was the point," Grant said shortly, but he left De Lancey to it.

He went instead to where Strange had his face pressed against the bedsheets. His beautiful hands were still in fists. Grant touched one softly. He touched Strange's hair, careful not to snag the tangled curls.

Strange opened his eyes and looked at him. "Th—that was— you," he said rather indistinctly, then closed his eyes again as De Lancey thrust particularly hard.

"Yes," Grant said. "I'm sorry." He meant— he did not know what he meant, exactly.

"No, I— oh," Strange groaned. His hand opened and scrabbled frantically against the bedsheets. Grant reached out and covered it with his own, and was not surprised when Strange wrenched his hand into a trembling, iron-hard grasp. "Don't go," Strange said breathlessly. "Please don't—"

"I won't. I wasn't going to."

Strange pressed his mouth to the back of Grant's hand. It was a messy, open, ragged kind of kiss, but in spite or perhaps because of this, Grant felt an uncomfortable jolt of lust. He had to put his hand to his cock, press against it.

De Lancey, meanwhile, was in his final throes; he was shoving erratically into Strange, voicing the occasional, nonsense expletive. Eventually he bit his lip very hard and froze, his body racked with the tension of climax. When the moment had passed, he rode out the last small shivers, thrusting much more shallowly, before finally withdrawing. His body was glowing with sweat. He said to Grant, "Your go, then," collapsing into a chair.

Grant looked at Strange, who was still holding his hand. "I'm going to—" he said. Then, upon consideration, he lifted Strange's head up and kissed him. Strange made a surprised sound into it, and then a longer one of pleasure. This was so much what Grant had wanted to hear, without knowing it, that he brought both his hands to cradle Strange's face, stroking at Strange's cheekbones with his thumbs, kissing into his mouth with a singular, incoherent intent.

After a moment he regained his composure and pulled away.

He tried to arrange Strange in what he thought would be the most comfortable position— De Lancey had, in the end, probably without meaning to, hitched his hips up quite high— and smoothed his hands over the muscles of Strange's back. There was sweat there, collecting in the little dips of his spine. Grant wanted to take house in licking each of those dips, in touching Strange just like this, just so gently— but instead he did what he had to, and spread Strange's legs.

Strange, he found, was still very wet where De Lancey had spent, but Grant still troubled to smooth some oil onto his cock. This made everything so very very wet when he first pressed in— so wet and so hot, an unbelievable, I-will-die-of-it hotness, so that he could do and think of nothing else, and for a moment he was quite unaware of any sound he might be making, so completely eaten up was he by the intensity of the pleasure. It was a kind of pleasure that demands to be chased, and though he had meant to be careful, he had to helplessly chase it, burying himself again and again in Strange, grinding down in an effort to go deeper— and then he came back somewhat to his body, and had to force himself to turn his thrusts slow and shallow. He bent himself over Strange, mumbling into the skin of his back, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and then, because he could not help himself: "God, you feel, Merlin, you feel so good, you don't know, so good, so good," a steady stream of rather embarrassing nonsense.

Strange's hips hitched against his, and he reached around to feel for Strange's cock. He had not known what to expected, but it was hard, and he wrapped his fist around it, feeling Strange's whole body shudder and tense as he did so. The idea of Strange's pleasure— of Strange's pleasure while Grant's cock was in him— was so exciting that Grant had to still for a moment. Strange made a kind of whining, complaining sound at this.

Grant said, "Yes?" and thrust into him again, and the answer— Strange's dragged-out _"Oh-h"_ — was exactly as he might have wished. He kept up this work at the same steady rhythm. He could feel when Strange experienced some very intense jolt of pleasure, for the entirety of his body went tense, and at this Grant could not help but groan.

He had not paid any particular attention to what De Lancey was doing, supposing him to have, as it were, left the game, so he was confused when he felt a hand touch his shoulder— then a hand removing his grasp from Strange. He looked up hazily, blinking, and saw it was De Lancey.

"The Duke says no," De Lancey said.

Strange said, not very coherently, "Noplease. Please."

"But," Grant said. He was not really in a fit state to argue. He was empty-headed with pleasure and soaked in sweat, and he could concentrate only on one principal goal, which was to pursue his climax in Strange.

"No," De Lancey said. He shrugged, as though he did not understand either. As though in consolation, he let his hand wander up Grant's arm, ghosting through the sweat on the skin, and Grant shivered despite himself and was acutely aware of exactly how close he was to that desired climax. He thrust, and Strange moaned under him.

De Lancey moved around the bed, and dropped to his knees, and pushed his hands in Strange's hair and kissed him. It was a long, energetic kiss, and Strange leaned into it. De Lancey slowly petted his hair, his shoulders, and Strange pushed into that as well, arching his back and making an indistinct sound.

Grant grimaced. But anger only made him want more, more now. His hips jerked of their own accord and he had to move, he had to drive forwards, and then he was deep, deep in Strange again, pushing desperately, shoving over and over into that heat, his breath catching and catching till he felt he was not breathing at all, and he slammed into Strange and spent and spent and spent—

When he came back to himself, Strange was still shivering beneath him. Grant extricated himself and looked up at De Lancey. He said, rather bitingly, "What would the Duke like me to do?" He cast a glance over his shoulder at Wellington's shadowy figure.

De Lancey shrugged. "Oh, you may finish him now with your mouth if you wish."

Grant urged Strange to turn over. Strange looked damp, exhausted, shaky. His cock was straining and very wet by this time. Grant could not help pressing a kiss to his hipbone. Strange gave a low cry, and Grant looked up at him.

"Merlin?" he asked. "Is this all right?"

"Please," Strange said rather despairingly.

So Grant lowered his mouth onto Strange's cock, gently restraining his hips, using his tongue to lap at the bitter liquid, then to trace at the lines and veins. It took very little time before Strange made a startled, hitched sound and, without any further warning, spent, but Grant had been expecting this and swallowed it down.

When he raised his head, panting a little, he saw that De Lancey was still petting Strange's hair, kissing him in the same slow, concentrated fashion. They did not appear to notice that he was even there. But Grant found that he was simply too weary for anger. His supplies were depleted. He felt sad, and rather bitter, and as though the skin had been stripped off him.

He stood and picked his articles of clothing from the floor where they had been flung. He tugged his shirt over his head, and donned his breeches, aware that his entire body felt rather unclean, and in this state of undress regarded the Duke, who was still sat at his desk in the corner.

Grant said, "I take your point, sir. If I may be excused."

"You take the point," Wellington said, "but do you understand it."

Grant considered. "I may be needed elsewhere," he said rather unwillingly. "Or else I may— well, one never knows. I understand. It does not do to encourage dependence."

"Exactly so," Wellington said.

Grant said wearily, "If I may, sir."

Wellington nodded. He said, after a moment, "You are one of my best officers, Grant."

Grant sketched a bow and exited the tent. He did not even bother to don his boots; his own tent was quite close by, and he would have to bathe when he was there.

He did so slowly and dully, avoiding his reflection in the water. Mirrors made him think of Strange, and the childish, bouncing delight with which Strange regarded them. Or had done, anyway; there was no childish, bouncing delight in war, and they would have to wait till the end to see what of themselves remained.

When he was quite clean, and clad in a clean white shirt, he sat down at the edge of his bed. In the morning, he thought, he would rise as normal at dawn, and put on his uniform, and be very neat and crisp, and nothing at all would have changed. That was how small the hurt was.

He had been contemplating this idea for a very long time when he heard someone clear his throat uncomfortably.

Startled, Grant looked up.

Strange was standing just inside the tent. His hair was damp; he had obviously washed, and was in a clean shirt and breeches, but with all that, he still looked— well. He looked like a man who had passed the evening in the fashion he had passed it. And he looked rather nervous to be standing where he was. (In bare feet, Grant noticed, and felt a pang. He should not feel such fondness for Strange's bare feet.)

"You left," Strange said.

Grant said, "...Yes. I was intended to."

"But I did not want you to leave."

Grant surprised himself with a laugh. It was a very bitter laugh. "Very little of what has just taken place was about you, you will find. Or— in an indirect way."

Strange said, "Regardless, I think you will find that I was still the one who... " His voice failed him. He swallowed hard.

They did not look at one another for a moment.

"So," Strange said at last, "I suppose I did not really wish to sleep alone. But I have made a mistake. I will go."

Grant felt again that terrible tension in his breastbone. He did not think he could bear it. It felt like a bullet wound straight above the heart. "No," he managed. And then, more loudly, "No. No."

Strange took a very uncertain step towards him and stopped.

Grant held out his hand.

All in a rush, it seemed, Strange was pushing him down onto the bed, kissing him rather frantically, in a haphazard and shaky fashion. Eventually Grant got his arms wrapped around him and held him close and almost ferociously, burying his face against Strange's shoulder. He did not think he would ever let go.

"Stay here," he murmured to Strange. "Sleep here. I will take care of you."

"I know," Strange said.


End file.
